Provocative Publishing

featuring the work of Carole Hayman

Magic?

© Carole Hayman

May woke with the promise of a migraine. She lay for a moment, letting the hazy sunlight filter through her half-closed lids ‘til the crash of military cymbals jerked her into attention. The boys in the band were practising, hence the incipient headache. ‘Nessun Dorma’ ran swiftly into ‘A Life On The Ocean Wave’, followed by a rousing ‘Rule Britannia’. Tonight was their concert for the Music Festival, May was doing the sandwiches. Sighing, she pushed back the covers and, dismissing the pounding in her temples, swung her legs over the side of the high brass bed, inherited from Harry’s mother. He, Harry, had long gone - a fishing trip which would last until noon - breakfasts at the Delphinium wouldn’t wait, there was nothing for it but to take some pills, ignore the band and get on.

Darryl and Jeremy kept the antique shop on Warfleet strand. They had recently gone ‘euro’ and now displayed welcoming signs in several languages. There were also invitations to spend with Eurocheques, as well as the ubiquitous Access and Visa and promises of serious discounts for cash. Connor, the hired help, privately thought the discounts the only true international language.

Connor, though he travelled from Folkestone, was always first in the shop. Jeremy went to early sales, travelling as far as Bromley for bargains. Darryl would arrive towards noon, depending on the previous night’s engagements. This morning he lurched in blearily at around 11.30. Connor eyed him with a civil contempt. Darryl’s habitual expression on these occasions was one of apologetic smugness; a naughty boy bragging of his exploits but begging not to be punished. Connor could care less, but his usual dismissive silence was leavened this morning with anxiety. He glanced at the clock. He had a date at 12 noon at the Delphinium Lunch and Tearooms, with a very important person.

‘Er, Mr Willoughby…’

‘Call me Darryl… how many times…’

‘Er, yes… Darryl… will it be alright if I go to lunch early today? I’ll be back before 1.30.’

One-thirty was the earliest Darryl was able to face the wine bar for his hair-of-the-dog light luncheon. ‘Fine, dear boy,’ purred Darryl, glad to be let off so lightly and thinking, not for the first time, how delightful was Connor’s Galway accent and how long his dark eyelashes, ‘Has May been in with that gong? Mrs Dudicourt-Roussel wants it for the concert.’

A more observant person might have seen Connor stiffen, but Darryl, now mixing a strong Gold Blend, noticed nothing. ‘Ah, yes Mr Will… er, Darryl… she said be sure to take good care of it, it was Harry’s mother’s.’

Darryl gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘I think it will be safe enough in Mrs Dudicourt-Roussel’s hands… not literally hers, of course, the timpanist’s…’ Darryl sniggered a little as though testing the strength of his wit for later, then continued. ‘I’ll call her, she’ll be busy with all the concert arrangements, perhaps you can deliver it.’ Connor looked nervous but said nothing.

A few minutes later he was outside The Delphinium Superior Lunch and Tearooms, peering in through the lace-curtained windows. There she was, pale and beautiful in the corner. Connor swallowed hard, he loved her so much, desperately even, that his terror rushed to the surface every time he saw her. He pushed open the mock-Edwardian door, setting off a little jangling bell, and stood for a moment staring.

Genevieve Dudicourt-Roussel was indeed beautiful, she had the transparent blueish skin and pale blonde hair of a princess in a fairy story. You could see the veins in her wrist and neck hollows, mauve and slightly throbbing. To Connor, she was almost too precious to touch. He was afraid his rough peasant handling would break her. Now she looked up and smiled, revealing perfect (brace-straightened) teeth and a delightful dimple.

‘I was afraid you weren’t coming…’

‘As if… What are you reading?’ He turned over the little leather book.

‘Found it in Mama’s trunk in the attic, old wives’ cures for gout and things, there’s even a love potion…’ She turned to a crumbly page and showed Connor a recipe which began, ‘Take two cups of feverfew…’ but at this point May came out of the kitchen and placed beans on toast before her.

‘What’ll it be Connor?’ said May, ‘There’s homemade steak and kidney today, with carrots and mashed potatoes…’

After the lovers had made a substantial meal and were on their second cup of tea, in Connor’s case well sugared, they turned back to the book and laughed over the spells and potions…

‘Look Connor, look,’ cried Genevieve, ‘there’s one for a bad-tempered mother-in-law, awfully sexist!’

Connor thought of Madam Dudicourt-Roussel, not that she was ever likely to be his mother-in-law, and his fine black eyebrows drew together. Trust her to have a book of spells in her attic, he’d always thought of her as a witch queen, if a rather substantial one.

May came in with apple crumble and peered over Genevieve’s shoulder. ‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘I recognise that one,’ …Genevieve was on the removal of warts… ‘My Grandma swore if you rubbed it with steak and buried the steak in the garden the wart would disappear over night.’

‘Did it?’ said Genevieve.

‘Don’t know,’ laughed May, ‘we could never afford to try it.’

At 1.25 Connor held Genevieve’s hand as they parted. He longed to take her in his arms, crush her up against the wall, bite the soft neck where the mauve blood pulsated, whisper passionately ‘let’s elope, Folkestone’s only twelve miles away.’ Instead he said, ‘When shall I see you?’

Genevieve looked glum. ‘I’ve got to go with mama to the concert tonight.’ Amy Dudicourt-Roussel was president of the Warfleet Music Festival and tonight’s, with the Marine band and visiting royalty, was the ultimate concert. ‘We’re entertaining Archduke Erik after.’

Connor knew what that meant. The Austro-Hungarian prince was a distant branch of the Dudicourt-Roussel family. Amy had matched him in her mind with Genevieve and lost no opportunity of throwing them together. ‘I’ll be at the concert too,’ he whispered fervently, emotion making his voice disappear. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea together.’ In truth, Connor would have preferred a half of Guinness, but the concert was being held in Warfleet’s Temperance Chapel.

Connor spent the afternoon in a pother of expectation. He delivered the gong, to be struck in the 1812 Overture, to the Dudicourt-Roussel mansion, hoping for a glimpse of Genevieve, but was not allowed over the back-door threshold, where an officious house-keeper snatched the parcel from him. He heard voices and laughter however from the front of the house, the lawn, he guessed, where Genevieve and the Archduke must be playing croquet. His knuckles showed white on his handlebars as he wheeled the bike to the tradesmen’s entrance. He’d never felt more Irish. Darryl and Jeremy were squabbling like two fat ladies over bathroom space. Darryl had a new toupée which caused Jeremy much mirth, he tried to get Connor to join him in derision. Connor changed from his working clothes, black jeans and a t-shirt, to his going-out clothes, black jeans and a cleaner t-shirt, and brushed his springy Irish black hair in front of the mirror. His peasant face stared back, bony with deep-set, deep blue eyes. Darryl raved about his looks but he could see nothing good in them. Jeremy went to start the car and Darryl came fussing up, smoothing at bits of Connor. Connor’s mouth twisted… any excuse to touch him.

By seven-fifteen the Temperance Chapel was all but full. Amy Dudicourt-Roussel stood on the steps greeting important people. Others, she ignored. Mendicants queued for a glance or a handshake. Darryl kissed her hand and was rewarded with a gracious nod. Jeremy treated the Archduke, a balding man of forty, to an essay on South Coast weather. Genevieve was ravishing in designer leather, Connor didn’t dare approach her. The first part of the concert passed without incident, unless you counted the vicar’s sneezing fit, he was suffering with hayfever, and Laurel Hopcraft’s being forbidden to smoke and storming out in a fury.

At the interval May served tea, with sausages on sticks and vol au vents. Connor fought his way to Genevieve but she and her mother were surrounded by local dignitaries and she flashed him a despairing glance which Amy Dudicourt-Roussel noticed. She turned on Connor a look of such ferocious dislike that he felt his blood turn to ice and backed off into a corner.

The second half was the 1812 Overture and it was played with panache bordering on bravado. Connor’s gong was well beaten but he was too miserable to take interest. He lounged against the exit door, comforted only by a small black dog who appeared during the crashing bit and stood at Connor’s side wagging his tail and pushing his small wet nose into Connor’s dangling palm.

Afterwards there was a party at the Dudicourt-Roussel mansion. Genevieve swept by on the Archduke’s arm. Connor was not invited. Nor was May. Connor helped her wash up, then escorted her back to The Delphinium, pushing his bike beside him. May had her own tea, put Harry’s in the oven, then sat with her feet up musing over the book of spells Genevieve had left behind her.

That night, Genevieve’s engagement to the Archduke was announced. Jeremy was full of it next morning. Darryl’s hangover precluded his adding anything but a groan or two. Apparently there had been much champagne.

Connor was in despair. What had Genevieve said? He wanted to know. What did she look like? Jeremy thought pale, Darryl muttered ill, but it could have been to himself he was referring. One detail Jeremy added, she and the Archduke were leaving today to visit with his family in Cap d’Antibes, they’d be gone for a fortnight.

Connor passed a frenzied morning. He must see her, stop her. Why had she given in? She’d promised there was nothing that would make her! She didn’t keep their rendezvous at The Delphinium. Connor told May what had happened, she was shocked and distressed for him. She had watched the young lovers for many weeks, feeling indulgence mixed with sorrow. Everyone knew it wouldn’t work, the distance in class was impossible.

All afternoon Connor paced about chain-smoking. Darryl waved his arms at the blue cloud saying it made him nauseous and eventually sent Connor on an errand. He was to pick up the gong lent for the concert.

Connor fairly flew along the lanes, his black hair streaming out behind him and a fine sweat breaking out on his face and shoulders. Bits of nettle and old man’s beard tangled in his spokes as he peddled; as he wheeled it up the Dudicourt-Roussel drive, his bike resembled the mad Ophelia.

There was no-one at the back door. Connor pushed it open, the kitchen was empty. He tiptoed through it, so was the hall. Through the open front door he could see a two-seater sports car, ready with bags for Genevieve’s departure. Where was she? He must find her! Silently, he went upstairs and carefully opened one door, then another.

He found himself in what must be Amy Dudicourt-Roussel’s bedroom; a huge canopied oak bed, satin hangings in yellow ochre, gold-backed brushes and many glass bottles, a powerful smell of perfume.

The gong lay on a small table. Connor stepped towards it and as he did so a gust of wind from the open balcony slammed the door shut behind him. Connor grabbed the gong and rushed to the door terrified the sound would betray him, but now the door was stuck and, though he tugged ‘til sweat appeared on his butterfly tattoo, he couldn’t get it open. He heard voices, Genevieve and others. They were in the drive, a car was revving. He rushed to the balcony and almost threw himself over as he saw the engagement party. Genevieve was climbing into the car. Others, including Madame Dudicourt-Roussel, stood grouped together laughing and waving. He shouted but they didn’t hear. Genevieve didn’t even look in his direction. If she saw him, whatever strange spell she was under would surely be broken. The car was beginning to turn from the door, he must get her attention.

Suddenly he remembered he was holding the gong. It seemed to spring into the air at the end of his arm and with his clenched fist he beat and beat it. People’s heads turned, so no-one saw a small black dog run from beneath a bush and cross in front of the car. No-one, that is, except Connor… and Erik, who swerved to avoid it and crashed the car into Amy’s prized poplar trees, killing himself instantly.

Connor dreamt the rest nightly in slow motion. Genevieve taken from the car shaking and screaming, people crying, police, ambulance, Madame Dudicourt-Roussel’s furious face banishing him forever. Of the dog, there was no sign. No-one but Connor believed it.

A few days later, May walked up the drive to the mansion. She intended to see Madame Dudicourt-Roussel, there was something she wished to discuss with her. She’d heard the story from Connor’s side, many times in fact as he’d been staying with her. Someone had to look after him, distraught and feverish as he was, full of wild conjecture. One thing was clear, he was parted from his love, probably forever.

Genevieve opened the door to May, she looked startled, then frightened. May was sorry for her, privately she thought her spoilt and rather spineless. Still, if that’s what Connor wanted…

‘It’s alright, dear,’ she said kindly, ‘it’s your mother I’ve come to see.’

‘How’s Connor? said Genevieve breathlessly lowering her voice.

‘Ill,’ said May, ‘he needs to see you.’

‘Mama won’t let me,’ said Genevieve, thrusting out her charming lower lip, ‘ she’s cut off my allowance.’ At that moment Amy Dudicourt-Roussel appeared at the top of the stairs, magnificent as a sofa, in scarlet upholstery.

‘What is it?’ she called.

‘I’d like a word,’ said May.

Genevieve seemed to fade away as Amy swept down the staircase. ‘Is it about the cake stall for the fete? Come through to the kitchen.’

In the kitchen Amy and May confronted each other over a joint of beef in a marinade tray. Enough, thought May, for twenty- five Delphinium roast dinners.

‘Well?’ said Amy.

‘It’s about Connor… and Genevieve,’ said May.

‘There is no ‘Connor and Genevieve,’ boomed Amy, ‘what a laughable suggestion.’

‘Yes,’ said May, as though considering. ‘But you see, there is this letter…’ from her pocket she took the little book of sorcery and shook it ‘til a piece of paper slipped into her hand, The paper was yellowish and folded and had strong black writing on it. Amy Dudicourt-Roussel looked first puzzled and then alarmed.

‘Where did you get that?’ she demanded, her tone implying police and future courtrooms.

‘Your daughter left the book in my cafe,’ said May calmly. ‘The letter fell out the back of it.’

‘You have no right…’ began Amy, but her voice was uncertain.

‘A bit late for that.’ said May.

Amy Dudicourt-Roussel looked curiously windless, even her earrings were drooping. ‘You read it, of course,’ she almost whispered.

‘Of course,’ responded May, her face betraying nothing.

‘Blackmail,’ said Amy dully, as though in a dreary vision.

May shook her head. ‘I only want one thing… Genevieve and Connor together.’

‘Impossible,’ choked Amy, her chin trembling with emotion.

‘Is it?’ said May. ‘ Would you rather everyone knew your peasant beginnings…? How, after raising you up to be his love, the count went back to his old life? You were never even married to him… Genevieve’s a bastard!’

Amy Dudicourt-Roussel, if that was indeed her name, had her hands over her ears. May went relentlessly on. ‘Of course, he gave you money, let you keep up the pretence, it’s all in his last letter.’ She held the withered letter up, as though it had talismanic properties.

Amy had collapsed onto the table. She looked half her previous size and desperate. May was afraid she might cry, a sight she wished to avoid, so she said briskly, ‘This will remain between us strictly, as long as you grant my wishes. The letter is yours…’ she put it on the table by the succulent piece of meat. ‘I’ve taken the precaution of a copy.’

Three months later Connor and Genevieve were married. All of Warfleet was there. Darryl was best man, dressed in pink. He cried like a mother at having to give away Connor. The reception was a splendid affair. A marquee on the great house lawn, trestle tables bowed with magnificent dishes, un-seasonal fruit and world-wide delicacies. An army of hired hands ran around dispensing Bollinger, while Amy stood like Queen ant, bloated with hostess triumph. In the photographs she loomed behind the Nuptial couple, seeming larger than them by far. Her monstrous hat threw shadow on their faces, which were otherwise happy and smiling.

Modestly dressed and sitting in the corner, May was seized with anxiety. Connor bought her champagne and was puzzled when she gripped his hands and said she hoped she’d done the right thing and they really would be happy. He looked deliriously at his bride. She was spellbindingly beautiful in Versace off-white, sparkling like a jewel to her admirers. She would love the green mountains and rivers of Galway, where at last he would have her entirely to himself. How could May doubt that their life would be ecstatic?

May looked at his shining face and smiled. They would be happy. Across the room she saw Amy Dudicourt-Roussel watching. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes, locked with May’s, were black with fury. May patted Connor’s arm. Yes, they’d be happy for a while… and if not, they’d have plenty of money.

Carole Hayman's message board

Enjoyed this story? If you've liked something on this website, if you have an opinion you'd like to share, or if there's something you'd like to see featured on the site, please leave a comment on Carole's message board.

Post your views